Pre digital Man
by Spockchick
Summary: Tales of the unlikely friendship between Riley and Hendorff (that's Cupcake to us). Occasionally they invoke the wrath of Scotty. They are the Spike and Chester of Starfleet.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **a kind of 'after the credits', playing fast and loose with TOS episode time line, based in Reboot. No knowledge of TOS required though. This episode: Operation Annihilate! IMHO the parasites looked like flying pizzas. And I have moved Riley's post to security.

I reckon Cupcake was having a bad day when he beat up Kirk, and let's face it, JTK was quite provoking. Thanks to beta SpockLikesCats. Again, I own nothing (except a fine pair of Spock-ears) and I profit not.

* * *

><p><strong>Pre-digital Man<strong>

It wasn't really all that bad, _manageable _is what Doctor McCoy called it, then he nicknamed it the Denevan Dropsy, although dropsy was a totally different disease all together. Nausea and tiredness were the main symptoms, but not so bad that you couldn't carry on your duties with a hypo of anti-emetic and a good night's sleep. Cupcake's sister had three kids and she'd worked all the way to the end of each pregnancy. He figured she probably felt like this a lot. At least the _Enterprise _crew only endured the discomfort for about a week. No, the fun came as the virus left your body, and Cupcake had the bruises to prove it.

Of course, a security detail was first down on the planet, where they were able to rescue the Captain's brother and his family – and a whole lot of other people – from killer parasites. It was still a mystery to him how the young Kirk seemed to know things intuitively, he had a sixth sense about a lot of stuff. McCoy and Spock figured out that a simple UV light eradicated the parasites, job done. It would have been textbook, but the landing party returned with a flu-virus the colonists had long become immune to. Commander Spock wryly deemed the situation "An equitable trade," and the flu spread through the ship faster than scuttlebutt. There was no cure as such, you just had to let it burn out.

Cupcake was among the first to be infected, so with any luck he would be over it soon. About five days into his illness, he sat at the security console, feeling as though he hadn't slept for a hundred years. His head jerked. Did he nod off there for a second? Not good, not good at all in security. You can't be off the ball for a moment. You never know who might beam onto your ship when you least expect it. _Stretch the legs, that's a good plan, to get moving_. He struggled off his chair, and the last thing he heard was the echo of a male voice, shouted through cupped hands:

"Tiiiimmm – buuurrr!"

Afterwards, his colleagues told him that he'd fallen into a dead-sleep on the deck, for about a quarter of an hour, snoring like a Horta and (to his mortification) mumbling "knit one, purl two." So what, if he loved to knit baby clothes for his niece and nephews? It was meditation for him, and you had something to show for it at the end, as well as a clear mind. He lumbered off to sick-bay, at last feeling wide-awake, where a nice blonde nurse regenerated his wrenched shoulder, and broadcast a message to all staff that if they felt excessively sleepy, TO LIE DOWN IMMEDIATELY. Cupcake never met a woman before who could appear to speak in capital letters; he liked it.

Aside from himself, there were few casualties, and it quickly became apparent that the bigger you were, the shorter you slept. On the bridge, as Cupcake gave a quick security briefing, the captain asked the navigator a question which went unanswered; the young Russian had fallen asleep with his face on the console. Kirk snapped, his patience stretched by fatigue.

"Mister Sulu, didn't you notice your navigator was asleep on the job?"

Sulu looked sheepish, shaking his head, "Uh, no. No sir, sorry sir. I – "

"Never mind, none of us are exactly firing on all thrusters this week. Just get him a bit more comfortable, will you?"

Sulu scooted over to Chekov's chair and levered him up to a sitting position, pausing half-way to peel a stylus off the boy's cheek. An hour later Cupcake was summoned to take the teenager to his quarters, as he was showing no sign of awakening. _Never mind kid, when you wake up you'll feel fantastic._

* * *

><p>Kevin Riley was getting on Cupcake's last nerve. He didn't know there were people who sang in their sleep. One more tuneless rendition of 'I'll Take You Home Agaaaaaiiiiiiiiin, Kathleeeeeeen', and he was seriously going to punch a hole in a door. Clearly the idea to leave Riley sleeping in his chair after he plunged into the virus-induced coma wasn't a bright one. Cupcake couldn't endure the caterwauling until his watch ended; that wouldn't be for another two hours. With a sigh, he put the squawker over his shoulder and summoned a turbo-lift.<p>

The doors whispered open to reveal the inevitable sight of another sleeper; a pretty dark-haired ensign, propped up against the lift wall. Teresa Ortiz: a demon poker-player and agile boxer with a literally cracking left hook. A well-built girl, she probably wouldn't sleep for long, which gave Cupcake an idea. As he propped the wailing Riley up beside her, he slid the crewman's hand onto Teresa's bare knee. Closing the lift door he prayed she'd awaken first, and use her boxing skills. If she put the Irishman's jaw out, maybe that would silence his waking performances for a few days. How Cupcake had grown to hate 'The Rose of Tralee', Danny Boy', and 'When Irish Eyes Are Smiling'. By day, he let it go; you wouldn't wish Riley's Tarsus childhood on your worst enemy - no wonder he sang.

At last, able to take a break, he left for the mess hall and stepped into a scene resembling avant-garde performance art taking place in the passageways of the _Enterprise. _Bodies were propped up in corners, lying flat-out on the deck and sitting up against bulkheads. The sounds of gentle snoring, and sleep-talking, made the ship seem alive with ghosts; a little creepy, but amusing as well. Seeing a princessy, overly-made-up blonde lieutenant with a spit-bubble blowing between her slack jaws gave him a kick.

One obscenely young crewman (third class) had his thumb in his mouth, and Cupcake bent to remove it, tucking the offending digit into the boy's waistband. In the mess he'd seen the youngster teased without mercy - no point in giving them more ammunition. It was impractical to get them all back to their quarters, and the doc said, "A spell sleeping on the deck is character-building, won't do them any harm." _A spell sleeping? More like a sleeping spell._

The security officer checked people as he went along to make sure nobody was tangled in an awkward position; the virus-sleep was an immobile one, people didn't move as they would in a normal doze. He hefted a tall, spindly communications officer to a padded chair in a briefing room; those slight of build slept the longest, and were the least cushioned against the deck-plating. Beginning to feel like a police officer on patrol at closing time on Risa, he rolled one stertorous Orion and two human heavy-breathers into the recovery position, as a precaution.

Of course, the first wave of the infected, _ha, that made it sound like a zombie-vid_, were now wide awake, right-as-rain and playing the occasional prank. A notorious tough-guy combat instructor was going to wonder why his forehead said "TAWT" when he got to looking at his reflection. Possibly, he'd misinterpret it as a poorly-spelled homage to his whippet-like body. His more kindly assistant (who was quite handsome, although Cupcake wouldn't say that to his face) would see the word "TOH" in his mirror; much better. Chortling, he made a mental note to look through the security tapes and 'accidentally' wipe any evidence of perpetrators.

Reinforcing the zombie theme, a stocky Andorian lieutenant lurched by wearing the glazed expression of a man waking in unfamiliar surroundings, and with all his joints seized up. Cupcake pointed to the guy's face and mimed a wiping motion on his own chin, and the lieutenant rubbed a snail-trail of drool from beneath his mouth. "Thanks." His voice was a dry croak.

"Don't mention it sir."

As he helped stiff-limbed crew off the deck, all bearing the same _whaa? _expression that quickly settled into_ oh yeah, I remember now, _checked on others, and generally had his progress impeded by the obstacle course in the hallways, he wondered if he would ever reach his destination. Crouched one-kneed on the deck, he placed a hand on his thigh, levered himself up and made a brief reconnaissance of the final twenty meters of his endless journey. The sight before him caused a tightening of his chest, and he knew what followed would be the usual speech paralysis associated with the crew member now approaching.

_Natsumi Hatakeda_ - her name sounded like a spring breeze. That he'd even thought of such a sappy analogy meant he was soft in the head; well gone. Transfixed by the swing of her shiny black bob, he tried to speak. _Come on Cupcake, say something, you idiot._ But his tongue swelled in his mouth, and all he could manage was a strangled, and effeminate, "Hi." _Moron. Don't go red, don't go red._

Too late, he felt himself blush when she gave a shallow, prayer-handed bow. His heart was not only on his sleeve, but lit up in neon and flashing. Bitter experience told him not to say any more, as her presence turned him into a kind of verbal Yoda. Any attempt to invite her to the mess would probably turn out like; "Mess I am going, join me, you will?" In his mind he saw her delicate brow, knitted in quizzical confusion, wondering if perhaps Standard wasn't his first language. He was convinced she thought him simple, a great hulking Lenny from _Of Mice and Men;_ biddable muscle. Thus far, his dignity in her presence was in tatters. He spilled things, and once he'd even tripped, on an imaginary trip-wire.

As she made to reply, her limbs folded towards the deck, and he caught her about the waist with swift security-officer reflexes. He felt dismay that his high-pitched greeting had provoked her cultural politeness and possibly delayed her from lying down, until she had no choice but to pass out.

What now? Although not very short, to him she was tiny, and so light. Chekov slept for ninety minutes, Cupcake for fifteen, but he was the biggest human on the ship. This light cherry blossom could sleep for half a day. _Cherry blossom? Man, don't ever say that out loud._ He debated putting her over his shoulder, but felt uncomfortable exposing her in the inadequate short uniform, so he lifted her into his arms, fighting the urge to smell her hair. At least while she slept, the chances of him staging further clown performances were low. A stomach-churning scenario of him stumbling and landing on her, accompanied by the sound of squelchy splintering, went through his head.

Giving up all hope of reaching the mess, he pointed himself at the rec-room; a bear with an egg in his paws.

Treading with careful concentration, he was startled to almost collide with another being, striding confidently along. Its shape didn't ring any bells - no such species existed on the _Enterprise, _did it? Its bottom half was biped, and the top a haphazard tangle of multiple limbs.

Commander Spock was carrying Arex, the Edosian six-limbed relief navigator, who had a gentle snore and a sharp fin on the end of his chin that dug into the XO's pectoral muscle.

"You've got your hands full there, sir."

"Indeed, he is most..." Cupcake could see the Vulcan groping for a benign word, "...chaotic."

"You want to trade, sir? My bundle's light as a bloss – feather."

"It is not the weight that poses the problem, but its distribution. The arrangement of the skeletal structure is also something of a hindrance to effective conveyance. I believe any attempt at a _trade_, as you call it, would result in unnecessary expenditure of energy, for both of us. I have started as I mean to go on."

_Wow, way to go commander, never use one syllable when six will do._

Cupcake nodded. "Of course, sir. I'm taking ensign Hatakeda to the couches in the rec-room, you want to follow me?"

"Affirmative. Carry on."

On the way they passed the chief engineer, carrying Keenser.

Scotty gave two brusque, military nods: "Commander. Ensign."

Spock acknowledged: "Mister Scott."

Each regarded the others' charges with detachment, as if carrying a sleeping colleague while going about your daily business was completely normal, then continued on without exchanging another word.

_Well_, thought Cupcake, _this is probably nowhere near as whacko as it'll get, and we're only six months into our voyage._

In the rec-room, the number of crew who'd dropped during their day was fewer than in the corridors, and Cupcake easily found a space on a couch for Natsumi. Conscious of the commander looming behind him, he was brisk about laying her down, then assisted Mister Spock in disentangling Arex's form from the Vulcan officer's shoulders. It was like unravelling knitting gone wrong. At last, the commander was freed, and they agreed to place Arex on his side, really the only option for someone with a tripodal arrangement of limbs. Despite himself, Cupcake found it impossible not to ask mental questions about the shape of Edosian toilets. Thankfully, the commander broke through his thoughts before they blundered down an inevitable, more scatological trail.

"You were only briefly affected by the flu, ensign?"

"Yes sir, I reckon my size helped. You? How are you feeling?"

"I was unaffected; my Vulcan physiology seems impervious to many afflictions that plague you … humans."

_You are an arrogant prick sometimes, I'd love to find out if you really are 3 times as strong as a human – sorry, 2.733 (recurring)._

"I'm surprised Lieutenant Arex got sick, sir - it does seem mostly humans, Orions and Andorians."

"Indeed, however he _is_ asleep. The duration is unquantifiable due to his unique status on the ship. We have no other Edosians as controls."

"Yeah. Hey, I thought the captain made a good call when he told you to duck that flying pizza, it's kinda like he knows things in advance." Cupcake thought this conversation was possibly impertinent, and was among the longest he'd had with a senior officer, but the circumstances weren't normal.

Spock merely raised an imperious eyebrow that mimed "dismissed."

"Okay, well, I better be off, sir. I'm off duty."

"Carry on, ensign."

Cupcake risked a glance at Natsumi. She was breathing quietly, her normally neat hair mussed; he didn't want to leave. Staying to watch over her was creepy, and would inevitably end in bewilderment on her part as she struggled to understand him without the aid of a universal translator.

* * *

><p>It was a miracle. He was in the mess putting the final touches on his meal-tray, and nobody had fallen down, lain down or talked down to him in at least ten minutes. For some months now, he'd saved up alcohol credits for a rainy day. This was that day, and he dithered trying to make a decision, finally settling on a half-bottle of sake. It looked like a doll's-house accessory in his hand; that was the problem with alcohol when you were a big guy, one man's bucket was another man's thimble. Oh well, he had a couple of bottles of Starlight Apple Brandy from home, hidden in his quarters. But they were for a really rainy day – a cats and dogs kind of day – and he sensed the weirdness was just beginning.<p>

He liked this ship, it was enlightening.

Determined to let the fallen take care of themselves, he stared fixedly at his plate while he ate. Certain he'd established an obvious exclusion zone, he was annoyed to see the shadow of a companion fall across his meal.

Jonno, from engineering; an insufferable gossip who Scotty referred to as 'The Fishwife'. "How ya mate?"

"Tired."

"See you got sake there, remind you of the lovely _Now-sue-me._"

"Her _name _is Natsumi."

"I know mate, it's just a funny name."

"I'm sure she thinks Jonno is hilarious. It's probably Japanese for _asshole."_

A rhino had thinner skin than Jonno; he ploughed on regardless, cramming fries into his mouth so fast that Cupcake felt quite queasy and stood, draining the last of his sake. "I'm tired, gonna get to my bunk."

"Right-o big guy! See ya!"

Outside the mess _was_ a mess. Fatigued by the thought of a further slalom through bodies on the way back to his quarters, his mind went to the soft couches in the rec room. Surely if he got his head down for a couple hours in there, the battlefield would be cleared? Part of him knew he'd thought of this cunning plan because of the casualty sleeping off her fever in there. Sighing, he sloped off to the rec-room, resigned to whatever fate his minor stalking consigned him to.

.

He'd meant to sleep for two hours, but he was soon woken by minor tremors in his leg which turned out to be Arex, shaking him by the foot while entering data into a padd with a stylus. "Mister Cupcake sir," everyone called him that now, thanks to James Tiberius Kirk, "are you well? What time does your watch start?"

"Uh, what time is it?"

"06.21."

"Sh – ah, I didn't mean to sleep this long. Thanks, Mister Arex, my watch isn't 'till eight." As he left, he looked to the couch where he'd laid Natsumi down. It was empty.

Things got back to normal over the next few days. Kevin Riley continued to bug the hell out of him with his 'singing', and the last of the crew shook off their torpor. One quiet shift, Cupcake and Riley sat playing the "Illegal Boarding Simulation" on the ship's computer. It was really an excuse to shoot Klingons, and both he and Riley played using fake ID numbers. They were set up by an older lady in computing services who found Kevin's accent "absolutely darling - say something again, Kevin". Riley could switch the accent on and off at will. Praise be, the man was useful after all. Truth was, if they played under their own names, they would be on the carpet for their unorthodox solutions, like putting sixteen phasers on overload and blowing a hole in the ship. They _could_ complete the sim properly, but what was the fun of that?

Kevin swung in desultory fashion on his chair, arms trailing behind, staring at his screen, which said "Mission failure. Fatalities: 436." _Whoops_. Never mind, the bang was glorious. "You should ask that lass Natsumi out, ye know."

"What? She wouldn't go out with a big lunk like me."

"She would - Teresa told me."

"Huh?"

"You know, Teresa, I'm going out with her." Riley took on a cowboy stance (Cupcake didn't know it was possible sitting down), shoulders back, thumbs hooked into his imaginary gun belt. Proud as freaking punch. "Yup."

"Teresa? You? Going out?" Lord, his internal Yoda was peeking out again. "How?"

"Ah," Riley knuckled his head, ruffling his hair up, "hard to say, I woke up with my hand on her knee in the lift. I don't remember getting in the lift," he shrugged, "and things kinda went from there."

From second-hand jaw-breaker to matchmaker, who'd'a thought it. Cupcake ventured an indelicate question, "Isn't she a bit ... robust for you, Riley?"

"Oh no, my grand-pappy always said 'never trust a flimsy woman', that's what he said, no use on the farm."

"Ri – ght, you do know you're on a starship, Kev?"

"Yeah, sure I do."

This line was pointless to pursue. "So Teresa said something about, uh, Natsumi ...?"

"Oh, yeah, she _likes _you. Told Teresa she thinks you're funny, and you saved her from mashing her head on the deck. She likes funny guys, watches them old holos by..." Riley struggled, his eyes unfocussed, "Bust Erkeetin!"

"Bust Erkeetin?" Never heard of them.

"Nah, me neither, I think it's like, from the pre-digital."

"Woah, nobody watches that stuff, unless they're doing research."

"Whatever, it means you've got a chance."

"That's me, Kev, unreconstructed, pre-digital man."

"So? You gonna ask her out?"

"I might."

"Cool, we can double-date! We can go to the observation deck and ... make ice cream in the replicators ... and ... and ... Karaoke!"

Cupcake rested his forehead on the console, and groaned.

* * *

><p>Tugging the hem of his jacket down, Cupcake stood outside Natsumi's quarters, holding a fist-sized purple orchid to his chest. His pleading with Sulu made it all worth it as the door slid open to reveal his date, sheathed in violet silk, her jet hair gleaming. Smiling up at him, she gave her customary Japanese bow, which Cupcake returned, except he was holding the orchid, so his hands couldn't go together, and he fumbled and dropped the flower, then tried to make a catch, succeeding somehow in launching the little plant at speed towards the overhead.<p>

They both watched as it shot from his grasp and flew in an arc below the upper deck. Cupcake wanted to die on the spot as he watched three months of Sulu's careful tending plummet to earth in slow motion. He'd have sworn the little sucker _jumped _out of his hand.

"Got ya!" Natsumi's balletic arm shot out and caught the bloom with expert precision by the short stem. "Hey, we're a good team!" She giggled. "I can be your _straight man_." Mesmerized, he watched her tuck the bloom into the 'v' of her dress. Completely blasé to his slapstick introduction, she continued to beam in expectation. He held out his arm, she hooked hers into it, and they walked off to the observation deck.

A bear with an egg in his paws.

- The End -


	2. Chapter 2

Many thanks to my wonderful beta, SpockLikesCats. I tweak after, therefore errors are of my own invention. I have no stake in Paramount, although I do have a fine pair of rubber Spock-ears. All this tomfoolery is for non-profit-making fun. Happy Christmas!

* * *

><p><strong>In space, no-one can hear you get reamed<strong>

Some days you can't just catch a break. Riley was having one of those days. Why did all the ship's command crew think he was their subordinate? That day he'd done three half-watches, one in security, one in the transporter room, and another in engineering, where Jonno's too-loud laugh caressed his senses, as delicate as wire wool on bare skin.

"Life o' Riley? Yeah, that's what I'm talking about! Jack of all trades and master of none!" still rang in Kevin's ears as he stomped towards the mess for some well-deserved chow, cursing his peripatetic status on the ship.

Sometimes, a man can cross a room and blend in. Chatter continues as he slides by, thankful for the anonymity, and the chance for a bit of peace. In his bones, going by the day he'd had, Riley wasn't surprised at his dramatic entrance into the throng with his dinner.

The entire body of the mess went silent as a coarse voice blared out, its owner with his back to Riley.

"...bet she has to go on top, that massive drongo would squash her tiny arse flatter than a koala caught under a – "

Everyone knew Riley and Cupcake were good friends, and as Jonno realised who stood behind him, the end of his _hysterically funny_ observation ran out of steam. Heads turned to see what would happen, and breaths were caught in by those fearful they might miss something as the Australian pivoted to face Kevin.

It was the Bunfight at the OK Corral.

If Kevin was getting done for disorderly, it would be for something worth it, not worthless. Furious, but determined to turn the other cheek, he did a mental calculation of his recreational alcohol credits and stalked to the replicator once more. Head held high, he punched in the code for a double Bushmills, jabbing the screen icons as though they were the eyes of his worst enemy.

He put as much distance as possible between himself and Jonno's posse, sat down and gripped his little glass of whiskey until his hand turned white, and a body slid in beside him.

"I'm proud o' ye, man. It's hard not to punch certain folk when they get in full-flow like that. He knows yer pal Cupcake is still on a shoogley peg with the Captain." Scotty's voice was low, his eyes surveying those nearest as he leaned in closer to Riley. "Ye know, if someone else were to, eh, take him down a peg or two – with a prank mind, no violence. If it happened in Engineering, I'd be prepared to take it as a crime o' passion, heat of the moment type thing. Everyone shakes hands and it's all forgotten. It's all part of team-building."

Still looking down at the hand wrapped round his glass, Kevin gave a tiny nod, unsure of what the Chief Engineer really meant. He was positive the Captain wouldn't take it that way; sometimes Commander Scott was a tad impetuous. And what the hell was a shoogley peg?

* * *

><p>Something was different about Natsumi's quarters. Cupcake looked about as she smiled up at him in delight, entwining her fingers behind her back, head cocked. "Well?"<p>

"Uh, well?" He knew there was a change, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Without warning, she flung herself to the floor, ass-first.

"Beanbag!"

Watching her slim limbs protrude from the mass, he grinned. "Awesome! I used to have one of these when I was a kid." He budged her over, sat, then lifted her onto his lap so they both snuggled into the bag. It moulded to his body, the beans a comfortable support to the small of his back. With his feet planted on the deck, he was able to move the bag back-and-forth in a pleasing roll. He made a mental note of that motion.

"Me too, and they're quite a lot of fun when you're a grown-up." Natsumi's eyebrows rose and her mouth made a cheeky grin. "And it's not as high as the bed; not so many accidents." Cupcake blushed as she giggled.

"All right, knock it off - I'm getting less clumsy. Know what I used to love doing?"

"Yes. I love it too." Shiny hair bounced as she nodded in agreement.

"Huh? How do you know what I was going to say?"

"Because _everyone_ loves it. You were going to say you opened the seam and played with the beans inside, swishing your hand about. They're like warm snow, and they make the hairs on your arms feel all fuzzy."

"How did you get hold of it? You didn't bring it onboard."

"I brought the cover from home, then I saved up replicator credits and replicated the beans. They're just a long-chain molecule made from hydrogen and carbon, and because they're mostly air it barely cost anything."

"Did I ever tell you how smart you are?"

"Yes, but tell me again."

* * *

><p>When Cupcake, with pride, told Riley how Matsumi brought a beanbag on board, Kevin's eyes took on a faraway look.<p>

"Kev, you listening?"

"Yeah, 'course, just thinking about something Scotty said. How does a replicator work, Cupcake?"

"Come on Kev, I'm not at a Starfleet Academy tutorial now - you know how it works - it's transporter technology."

"Can you ask Natsumi how many credits it took to fill her bag? And if she still has the formula code for the beans?"

"What are you thinking, Kev?"

"Honestly? Not a clue, but I'll come up with something."

.

.

_Meet me in the rec-room, deck 17 at 21.00. Destroy this message._

Cupcake groaned at the message on his Padd. Riley in secret agent mode meant only one thing - antacids. Was there even a rec-room on deck 17? A cursory glance of the ship's schematics confirmed there was, and it was listed as 'unfinished' on the maintenance record. Cupcake blew out a sigh. Riley was becoming a mole inside his own organisation, and who better to be sneaking around than one and a half security officers. No wonder Natsumi nicknamed them Laurel and Hardy.

* * *

><p>"Don't touch anything!" That was the frantic greeting from his friend when Cupcake met Kevin as agreed. "I don't want you getting in trouble. Just sit there and keep still."<p>

As a rec-room, it wasn't much good, carpet tiles were missing from half the floor, the sparse furniture was still covered in plastic film and the bulkheads were undecorated, showing raw, unfinished plas-steel. Even the replicator's shiny frontage was still swathed in protective peel-off strips.

"Who knows you're here, Kev?"

"Just Commander Scott. I'm checking it out for a project, he thought it would be good for some of the younger engineering crewmen to fix it up. The Captain OK'd it."

"And?" Acid bubbling at the level of his diaphragm indicated Cupcake's sixth sense for BS was kicking in.

"I volunteered to get the replicator working ahead of time, so they could get coffee and food."

"Very generous of you, Kev."

"Wasn't it?" Riley bounced a little, and Cupcake's stomach began to talk to itself while Kevin whipped out a stylus and stood in front of the replicator in the manner of a college professor. "Now, as we know, molecules are assembled into their component parts _here_ using variant transporter technology," he tapped the stylus on the bulkhead some two feet above the replicator, "then beamed along with appropriate containers _here_, into the dispensing slot...

"...or not."

"What?" Cupcake's head hurt now too, Riley had gone mad, that was it. "Kev, have you been drinking the Vulcan port?"

Kevin jiggled, and grinned the grin of an excited toddler on the way to his first space-flight. "Or, with minor adjustments, the replicated matter can be beamed anywhere aboard this ship, say – for instance – into the personal locker of a certain someone who has been getting on our last nerve."

Despite himself, Cupcake felt the corners of his lips turn up, so he clamped his mouth shut, trying to maintain the facade of a conscientious and professional security officer who didn't put up with such blatant disregard for rules. Commander Giotto really got under your skin.

"So, let me recap here, Kev, you're going to beam _food_ into Loudmouth's locker?"

"No," more bouncing from Kevin-on-a-spring, "I'm going to fill it full of polystyrene beans, right up to the top. So when he opens it...wham! Snowstorm!"

.

.

Their tactical assault was planned for a day when Riley was in Engineering. Cupcake could watch from afar on a security feed, safe in the knowledge he couldn't be implicated in Kevin's devious prank.

The day before the great jape, scenes flitted through his head; of Jonno opening the locker and being buried in beans, beans floating through the _Enterprise_, being scooped up by laughing crewmen, who danced and whirled, throwing them into the air with joyful glee, Jonno at a court-martial. Man, that was a daydream. Cupcake didn't think they could court-martial a man for beans, could they? Never mind, the look on the ass-hat's face would be enough recompense for his crude talk about Natsumi. He stretched out, seated at his station, arms folded behind his head, and smiled.

So the following day, no one was more surprised than Cupcake to find himself crouched in a toilet, knees 'round his ears, at 06.00 hours, sweating. With a communicator clamped to one ear, and a finger jammed into the other, he loud-whispered, "Abort! Abort! Surprise locker-inspection by commodore April, guest dignitary!"

On deck 17, in an unfinished rec room, Kevin Riley's hand hung in mid air, stopped in its trajectory towards the replicator's touch-screen interface.

He was relieved.

* * *

><p><em>One week later...<em>

At last, things were settling in on the engineering deck, and Scotty was having a good day. So far, nobody had stuck their fingers where they shouldn't, dropped tools into vital engine parts, or – again - put Keenser where he couldn't get down. Even the replicator tea was beginning to taste like a proper Scottish brew. It only took three weeks to tweak the program that produced the dishwater that had first poured into his earthenware tankard. He'd no time for piddly wee teacups. All was well. He should have known better.

"Sir! Sir! There's _ooze_ coming out of one of the lockers! Do you think an alien's beamed aboard?" A breathless, panting ensign barrelled into his office, her face flushed. Kovacs was her name, and she barely looked old enough to be in high school, never mind working on a starship.

Eyes raised to the ceiling, Commander Scott rose without a word and gestured for her to lead him to the source of this mysterious 'invader'. Whatever it was, an alien was far down his list of possibilities. More likely, someone was making illegal hooch, and it exploded.

A vile pus of red, brown and green bubbled through the ventilation slots of the locker, pooling on the deck, the putrid seepage from an infected wound.

Kneeling upstream of the flow, Scotty dipped a finger in the revolting goo and gave a tentative sniff. "Aye, well lass, if that's an alien, it's a coffee-lime flavoured one," his face screwed up, "with a hint o' tomato."

"Excuse me sir?"

"I dinnae know any more than you, lassie. Go and find the emergency override combination for these lockers. Then get a clean-up team over here, we dinnae want to attract space-weevils. And put a wet-floor sign up."

With saucer-eyes, she whispered, "S-space weevils?" and shot off to obey orders as if her life depended on it.

Gorn, this lot were gullible, ripped from their studies a year early by Nero. Scotty almost felt guilty teasing them. Tomorrow, he might send her down to stores for a tin of tartan paint to decorate his quarters, or a long stand. What in bloody hell was going on? He went to get a tricorder, and to wash his hands, but no sooner was he drying them off, than he was interrupted by the crackle of the comm unit.

"Commander Scott?"

"Scott here."

"It's Harris, from the squad fixing up the rec room. The replicator isn't working. We were told it would be. The display says 'functioning', but it's delivering empty crockery."

Tapping a lime-scented forefinger to his top lip, Scotty glanced out of the door towards the locker area. He added one plus one and made two, as was only proper for a mathematical genius.

"Get down here to my office, all o' ye's."

"Aye, sir. Harris out."

* * *

><p>Four expectant faces greeted Commander Scott across his desk. Bless them, they didn't even think they had done anything untoward. He pinched the bridge of his nose, hard.<p>

"... and you didn't think tae report the replicator out-of-order after your _first_ request failed?"

"Well, we thought perhaps it was just drinks sir. When we couldn't get tea or coffee, we tried soup, then dessert." Harris was a tall, sandy haired chap, earnest and freckled.

Head in hands, Scotty gave an almost inaudible groan, then looked up at his merry band of eager crewmen, first class. They didn't seem very first class today. "Dessert?"

"Yes sir, pudding."

Lord preserve him from hungry youngsters, their growing bodies and no-doubt rampant sex-lives meant they couldn't go without food for longer than a couple of hours. A forty-year-old man would have just waited 'till dinner-time. He spoke slowly. "So, tell me again, what exactly did you order from the replicator? I need an inventory."

A round, cheery girl offered up a list in Italian-accented standard; "Four large lattes, four teas, four cups of tomato soup, oh – and a coke, and ah," she looked at the floor, picking at a nail, "four pints of lime pudding and two strawberry jellos."

With the fingers of his left hand, Starfleet's finest engineer rubbed at his forehead, just above his nose, willing the day to go away. "Fo – _four_ pints o' lime pudding? _Four pints_?"

"Yes sir, it's the only flavour that tastes like real – "

Bam!

They all jumped as Scotty's fist hit the desk. He could feel his face heating up to resemble the colour of his shirt. "I don't care why you ordered the damn pudding. In future if something doesn't work – DINNAE KEEP USING IT!" A loud, exasperated sigh escaped his lips. "Did it no' occur to ye's all that there could have been a co-ordinate error? That all that gloop could hae been gumming up the replicator mechanism?" Before they could offer any defence, he shook his nipping head. "Well _think_ _on it_ the next time. Everybody oot! Dismissed!" Slumped back in his chair, Scotty scrolled through maintenance records on his terminal, a niggling at the back of his mind.

"Ohh – ohh – woah!" Splat! In the distance, the Chief Engineer heard the slap of a slipping... falling...connecting-with-the-deck body.

Exasperated, he bellowed out of the door, "I _SAID_ GET A WET FLOOR SIGN!"

Arm stretched over his desk, he flipped the comm-switch and asked for Ensign Kovacs. "Belay that order for a clean-up team, Kovacs; I reckon I've found a … volunteer."

It became legend - it would be talked about for the rest of the five-year mission - Commander Scott, striding through the corridors of the _Enterprise_, his complexion purple.

It was the shout heard 'round the world...

"RILEY!"

~~The End ?~~

* * *

><p><strong>Scotty-isms<strong>

Shoogley peg - an unsure footing

Nipping head - headache, as in 'ma heid's nipping me'


End file.
